What's Your Favorite Color?
by JustSlightlyConfused
Summary: Spock wasn't the first to be asked that question and he certainly wouldn't be the last. One-shot stories with McCoy tending to his fellow crewmate's injuries in his own special way. Slight spoilers for Beyond.
1. Kirk

_What's your favorite color?_

The first time McCoy asked that question, it was his second weekend at the Academy. After a hellish week of nothing but introductory courses filled with never ending syllabus lectures, Jim dragged him out of their dorms to hit the town for the night.

By then, he'd only known the kid a little less than two weeks. That, however, did not impede his ability to sense Jim's unfortunate habit of ending up in some kind of bar brawl the few times they went out for a drink.

Needless to say, when Kirk wants to end their night at one of the local clubs, McCoy is all but expecting to leave the place dragging his idiot roommate out by the collar, grumbling unhappily and threatening the younger man rigorously with every conceivable type of torture possible.

The usual, he thinks.

Unfortunately for him, and perhaps just a bit more unfortunately for Jim, this fight turns particularly nasty.

McCoy can hold his own for the most part; it's not like he hasn't been in his fair share of bar brawls before. But in the commotion, he loses sight of Kirk. He doesn't worry though because he knows the younger man will come out of it fine just like he always does. Albeit with a few scrapes and cuts and maybe a black eye every now and again; but that's nothing McCoy can't handle at this point.

Then comes a scream not unlike the ones McCoy's heard while working a late night shift in the emergency trauma unit of the nearby hospital. He searches frantically for the source and immediately feels the color drain from his face when he turns on a heel, eyes landing on a disheveled Kirk: the shattered leg of a wooden bar stool precariously lodged in his right leg.

By this time, all of the aggravators of the brawl are on the floor. Most cradling their injuries; some are unconscious. Honestly, McCoy could care less. He's already gone tunnel vision and is hopping overturned chairs and broken tables to get to Kirk. When he finally does get close enough to assess the damage, the younger man all but collapses into him. McCoy fumbles to readjust his position so that he can get Kirk's left arm around his shoulder.

"Hey, Bones," Kirk says. His words are taught; straining to remain casual despite what must be agonizing pain.

"Don't you ' _Hey, Bones'_ me, you idiot," McCoy reprimands. "Look what you've gotten us into now."

"Yeah, that's my bad," Kirk jokes, clearly still drunk and dazed from the fight. He gives a small laugh that quickly breaks off into an unpleasantly hoarse cough. He groans, no longer able to mask the obvious pain he's in. McCoy's demeanor softens a bit and he shakes his head.

"Come on, we've gotta get you to the emergency room."

"What, you can't use your doctor knowledge to heal me all by yourself?" Kirk slurs.

McCoy sighs gruffly.

"Don't you test me. I _will_ leave your ass here. Maybe one of your new friends could help you out once they regain consciousness."

"Alright, point taken. Let's go," Kirk says, taking a step forward.

McCoy sighs. Splendid. If he wanted to deal with drunken, injured bar brawlers he would have just taken the graveyard shift at the clinic this weekend.

Kirk yells out as his foot drags across the floor and McCoy quite suddenly forgets his anger altogether.

"Easy, Jim, one step a time," he instructs carefully. He waits a moment as the younger man breathes through his teeth, riding out another wave of pain.

Thankfully, Kirk obeys, and they slowly sync their movements to set a somewhat organized path towards the exit. It takes some time, but soon enough they're outside and surrounded by the cool autumn air.

"What now?" Kirk asks, at least a bit sobered up from the pain his injury's causing him.

McCoy thinks on that question for a moment. He forgot they took the public transit here. So they either walk the fourteen miles to the closest emergency care unit, which he is most certainly _not_ keen on doing, or they call an ambulance. But at this hour and this far out from the main part of the city, the wait time for help isn't promising. Of course they had to pick the dive bar farthest away from town on tonight of all nights.

"Here, sit down for a second so I can get a good look at your leg," McCoy says. Slowly, he helps lower Kirk to sit on the edge of the concrete sidewalk surrounding the bar.

Before he does anything else, McCoy takes out his phone and dials out for emergency services. It doesn't take long to get in touch with the dispatcher. She tells him it will be 20 minutes at least.

 _Great,_ he thinks.

The woman offers to help guide him in performing triage on Kirk's injury, but McCoy hangs up in a huff before she even has a chance to finish her sentence.

"I'm guessing it's going to be a while then, huh?" Kirk asks, words slurring together once again. McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Just shut up and let me look at your leg," he says, turning back towards the younger man.

He kneels down on the haunches of his legs and begins examining the splintered wood sticking out of the lower part of Kirk's right leg. The wound isn't exactly deep, but it's still lodged in there pretty tight; not to mention the possibility of the wood breaking off under the skin and embedding themselves in deeper parts of muscle tissue.

Despite all that, what worries him most is the blood dripping down Kirk's leg in rivulets and pooling on the dusty pavement beneath him. 20 minutes for an ambulance is ridiculous, but it's the only help they've got coming and McCoy can only do so much without any kind of medical supplies readily available. If he doesn't at least try and staunch the blood flow, the consequences could be bad. There's no way to treat hypovolemic shock all the way out here.

Grunting unhappily at the unfortunate circumstances he's been presented with, McCoy takes off his jacket to use as a makeshift tourniquet.

"I'm going to have to take it out," McCoy tells Kirk upfront. No use in mincing words; they're shit out of luck at this point and are essentially up the creek with no paddle. Though a even a boat without a paddle would probably get here faster than the ambulance that's coming, McCoy thinks.

"Take it out?" Kirk echoes hesitantly.

"Yeah, take it out," McCoy repeats. "As in remove the god damn wooden _log_ lodged in your calf."

"Isn't that going to hurt?" Kirk asks.

"I wouldn't say it's going to feel particularly pleasant, if that answers your question," McCoy replies.

Kirk sighs, letting his head fall back in surrender.

"I'll take it out and then use my jacket to tie off the blood flow. It'll at least stop the bleeding until the ambulance gets here," McCoy explains.

There's an expectant look on Kirk's face as he braces for the pain he knows is coming.

McCoy prepares to remove the length of wood when, oddly enough, a vague memory resurfaces from one of his earliest med school classes. He doesn't know why this specific moment suddenly comes back to him now of all possible times, but it does nonetheless.

He can hear the faded voice of his old professor, briefing them on the mental capacity for pain. How not knowing what's about to happen may lessen the pain rather than if you know what's coming.

 _"_ _You know, they say it hurts less if it's a surprise_."

Well, McCoy wagers, it's not like it'll make things worse.

 _Eh, what the hell?_ He decides.

"I've got a question for you, Jim," he says.

Kirk's face momentarily relaxes at the casual tone in the older man's voice. He looks expectantly at the doctor.

"What's your favorite color?"

And McCoy lets only a second pass, just enough for Kirk to give him an understandably confused look, before he latches onto the wood with one hand and Kirk's leg with the other.

Then he yanks it out, quick and clean.

Kirk lets out a bellowing scream that echoes across the San Francisco skyline and probably wakes up most of the city's sleeping inhabitants.

McCoy works quickly to wrap his jacket around the wound and tie it off to prevent any further blood loss. By the time he finishes, Kirk has stopped screaming.

There's a brief moment of silence.

"What the _hell,_ Bones," Kirk yells, tone furious and voice laced with residual pain from the extraction.

McCoy shrugs.

"They say it hurts less if it's a surprise," he says.

Kirk groans as he readjusts his body to a more comfortable position.

"Remind me to find whoever told you that so I can kick his ass," he says.

And McCoy smirks despite himself.

"How about, instead of that, the next time you get us into a bar brawl _you_ avoid getting half a stool leg shoved into your leg and _I_ won't surprise you by having to rip it out."

Kirk thinks on the offer for a moment.

"Fair enough," he agrees.


	2. Chekov

The second time he asks the question, it's just a month or so after the Enterprise defeats Nero and the crew pretty much saves the entire world. Everyone seems settled in after a couple days and McCoy finds he rather enjoys his new position as Chief Medical Officer. The job's a little hectic at the moment, what with filing out paperwork for every new crew member and all, but it keeps him busy enough.

He's doing his daily rounds on his patients when an injured teenager comes shuffling into medbay, his right hand gingerly cradling his left arm. McCoy recognizes the boy instantly. It's Ensign Chekov; the navigator from the bridge. McCoy hasn't had much interaction from anyone outside of medbay in the past few weeks. It's even been days since he's seen Kirk, whose annoying banter McCoy begrudgingly admits he's begun to miss. He makes a mental note to head up there later and check in on everyone.

For the time being, he focuses his attention on his latest patient. Chekov is awkwardly standing at the edge of the entrance, sheepishly glancing around in search of someone who can help.

"Mr. Chekov," McCoy calls.

Chekov glances up and a look of relief crosses his face as he finally sees someone he recognizes. McCoy motions for Chekov to come meet him by one of the empty beds. He watches as Chekov moves slowly; taking tiny steps as he goes along to make very sure his left arm doesn't move.

McCoy pats the edge of the biobed and Chekov gingerly begins to lift himself onto it. He cries out suddenly as his left arm hits the edge and his right hand slips. McCoy quickly catches him before he can tumble forward.

"Easy, kid," he instructs as he helps lift the boy carefully onto the bed. Chekov winces as he struggles to sit up without jostling his arm.

"Sorry," Chekov mumbles.

"No need to apologize," McCoy responds. He reaches for the tricorder at his side. As he goes to perform a preliminary scan, he notices the dirt and grease smeared all across Chekov's shirt.

"Jesus, kid, what did you do? Fall into the garbage chute?"

Chekov casts a glance down at his uniform and his cheeks begin to flush in embarrassment.

"No, I…I have been helping Mister Scott in engineering the past few days. I didn't have a chance to change before I came here. Mister Scott was very clear that I not stop anywhere else and that I come straight here."

McCoy internally laughs thinking about that; wondering what kind of threat Scotty had laid upon the poor kid should he try and skip out on getting his injury treated. A quick beep indicates the tricorder is finished its scan.

"Well it's a good thing you did come straight here," McCoy says as he reads down the scan results. "Looks like you pulled your arm clean out of its socket. How the hell did you manage that?"

Chekov purses his lips, hesitant to answer. He begins messing with the hem of his sleeve.

"Fell," he replies without making eye contact.

McCoy raises an eyebrow, not believing that excuse for one second.

"How'd you fall?"

"Tripped."

"Uh huh," McCoy says skeptically. "So you just _happened_ to trip, fall, and dislocate your shoulder all by yourself?"

Chekov does not answer, but has since stopped fumbling with the ends of his shirt.

"You wanna go ahead and tell me what really happened?"

Chekov hesitates for a moment before sighing. He stares at the floor.

"You cannot tell Mister Scott," he whispers.

"Patient confidentiality," McCoy says. "What's said here stays here."

"One of the other engineers-he…well, he wasn't happy because Mister Scott had assigned me to shadow him for the day. I didn't mean to impose on his authority... I thought I was helping him when I pointed out a mistake. It...it was stupid to do so. I shouldn't have said anything, but he-well I suppose he was very irritated about it so…"

"So he took it out on you," McCoy finishes, already fuming. What jackass takes his problems out on a teenager? And physically at that?

Chekov fumbles again with the sleeve of his shirt and mumbles a barely audible "yes".

McCoy's jaw clenches and he straightens up.

"Please," Chekov begs, wide eyes pleading with a youthful innocence that instantly wakes a fierce protective instinct within McCoy. "You cannot tell anyone. It will only make things worse and I do not want Mister Scott to remove me from duty."

"I can't exactly turn my head when I know another crewman attacked you, kid. Not to mention if I lie on the medical report and get caught? Then we're both up shit creek for failure to report an incident like this. Me especially. I don't fancy losing my position just because you don't want to make a fuss over something that you very well should be making a fuss over."

Chekov gears up to argue again but stops short when he sees McCoy sternly cross his arms. He sighs, head dropping along with the last ounce of protest he has left. McCoy feels like he's just delivered a debilitating kick to an already limping puppy and it goes without saying that the notion of such does not feel great.

Damn it, he thinks. He sighs, reaching over to grab a med kit so he can start treating the kid's injury.

"Look," McCoy says, prepping a hypospray. "I know you'd rather just keep this whole thing on the down low and ignore that it ever happened, but I _do_ have to fill out a report. And I can't just say someone physically assaulted you and not list a name when you know who it is. But, I'll make sure only the necessary people know about this, okay? The less drama the better anyway."

Chekov thinks on it for a moment before giving a small half-smile.

"Thank you," he says.

McCoy nods.

A few seconds of silence pass as McCoy fills and sets the hypospray. He wants to delve deeper into the incident, but he supposes he can have that talk later. Instead, he opts for a different topic of discussion.

"So…engineering duty?" He asks curiously. "Didn't really peg you as the hands-on type. Bridge not all it's cracked up to be?"

Chekov shakes his head.

"I love working on the bridge," he says. "Very much so. Navigation is what I enjoy. Charting stars and nebulas and galaxies; it is all I dreamed of. And more."

McCoy doesn't miss the excitement and wonder in the boy's voice. He sometimes forgets what passion like that feels like. Then again, it's been a while since he was that young. That hopeful.

Chekov continues.

"But I also love engineering. Learning how everything works; how everything _lives._ It is something that has interested me ever since I was young."

 _Young **er** , _McCoy thinks. Jesus, how old does this kid even think he is?

"So when Mister Scott offered to teach me, I could not say no. I have only been learning for two weeks and already I know more about this ship than I ever imagined."

McCoy injects the hypospray on the shoulder of Chekov's injured arm.

"For the pain," he says, tossing the tube in the nearest garbage bin. "Well, sounds like you've got a pretty nice setup with Scotty then. I honestly doubt he'll ban you from down there over something that wasn't even your fault, kid."

Chekov does his best one-shouldered shrug.

"I hope so."

McCoy closes his med kit and sets it on an adjacent tabletop. They've unfortunately reached the least pleasant part of tending to a dislocated shoulder.

"So now comes the time for me to return your arm to its rightful place," he says.

Chekov's eyes widen ever so slightly.

"I'll be quick," McCoy reassures him as best he can. Chekov nods and squeezes his eyes shut as McCoy puts one hand on the kid's wrist and the other on his abdomen for support.

"3…2…"

He feels Chekov tense beneath his grip and suddenly, just as before, McCoy has a moment of hesitation as he remembers the tactic he used on Jim that one time at the Academy. He guesses it wouldn't hurt to try it again.

"Actually," McCoy says, and instantly Chekov relaxes with a relieved sigh. "I just have a quick question for you before I do this."

Thoroughly puzzled, Chekov looks to the doctor expectantly.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Favorite…what? Doctor McCoy I-"

And suddenly McCoy yanks Chekov's arm down 90 degrees until he feels the bone slip snuggly back into place.

He's glad he has free use of both hands following that because he's most certainly sure he'd go deaf if he didn't. The close proximity coupled with the kid's surprisingly strong lungs has McCoy pressing both hands over his ears so tightly he's pretty sure he's created an airless vacuum inside his head. The kid screams for a good three or four straight seconds. When Chekov finally stops, McCoy hesitantly removes his hands from his ears.

Chekov whispers something in Russian and, from the forceful venom behind the words, McCoy can safely assume it's some kind of swear.

"It's supposed to hurt less if you don't know it's coming," McCoy explains.

Chekov glances up, expression halfway between overwhelming pain and incredulous disbelief.

"Yeah, Jim didn't really buy that either," McCoy admits. "But hey, it's over and done with now, right?"

Chekov grumbles something inaudibly and rubs his sure to be sore arm.

"You say something, kid?" McCoy asks.

Chekov doesn't hesitate this time when speaking.

"Asking that question because you thought it would be less painful was…"

"Ineffective?"

"I was going to say: 'stupid'," Chekov replies. "But I suppose that works too."

And McCoy can't help but laugh at that. He heads towards the supply closet to grab another sedative for pain. Kid has a little fire to his personality after all, he thinks. It actually almost reminds him of Jim.

That thought stops McCoy cold in his tracks and he whips his head back to stare at Chekov, who has begun to swing his legs and absentmindedly glance around the room. Surely Kirk, the energetic troublemaker and eternal strain on McCoy's psyche and sanity wouldn't greatly influence this young, highly impressionable, and eager-to-please teenager. Right?

McCoy can only pray.


End file.
